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tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil, The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Shew summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark, Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose (In vain the darling of successful love) Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, That blue and bright-eyed flowret of the brook, Hope's gentle gem, the sweet ! So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk Has work'd, (the flowers which most she knew I lov'd,) And, more belov'd than they, her auburn hair.